


oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness and you fill my head with you

by brahe



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Introspection, M/M, Porn with Feelings, bc i live for that shit, i guess, idk it's really like, sorry I don't make the rules - Freeform, stylized, they just really love each other ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 02:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15720246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: He is stunning, a portrait of passion, of everything Bruce could ever want – he is everything, consuming every inch of Bruce's line of sight, alighting every one of his nerve endings until he fills Bruce's attention completely, mind, body, and heart. If he were an artist, this is how he would draw Clark, looking like some Renaissance secret, aDavidlost to touch and skin.





	oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness and you fill my head with you

**Author's Note:**

> what's up it's me again bc i have no chill
> 
> is it a little ooc? maybe. but if ur on the "let them be in a happy stable established relationship" train w me then like...does it matter  
> honestly the only way this could be ooc is that like. bruce is happy for like more than two minutes in a row so is it really a problem
> 
> does it change tone like halfway through? probably bc im a wimp at sex scenes n i didn't really know what to do so i copped out a bit w some mild aesthetic porn w feelings that's more feelings than anything else
> 
> idk what else to say abt this except im just really deep in my superbat feels n i have no other excuses 
> 
> title from bloom by the paper kites

Clark lands on Bruce's balcony, feet silent on the concrete, and Bruce has half the mind to take a picture – it's Superman on his balcony, really, between the spandex and the hair and the look he's got, stunningly dramatic with the red fluttering around his ankles in the lake’s night breeze and the planes of his face thrown into sharp shadows. He's beautiful, ethereal with an edge of power, and Bruce just wants to touch.

The hero disappears almost immediately, though, replaced by Clark and his big, sunny grin. “Hey, sorry I'm late,” he says, running a hand through his hair and loosening the curls Bruce loves so much. He rummages in the bag he brought with him, and Bruce tries not to choke as he watches Clark switch the suit for Clark Kent's work attire, the white button down a delicious contrast to his golden skin. He always insists on this, on changing before they go inside when he shows up in the suit, and Bruce isn't entirely sure what he thinks about it, except that he always enjoys watching Clark peel spandex off his skin.

“It's fine,” Bruce says, impressed with how level his voice is. “Busy week?”

Clark looks back at him, then, finished, and if Bruce thought he was beautiful before, that has nothing on how absolutely devastating he looks now. The top three buttons on his shirt are undone, the bottom of it untucked – he looks halfway to rumpled in the best way, and Bruce wants to touch _so bad_. It's been fifteen days since they've seen each other – not that anyone's counting – and Bruce is practically itching with the need to get his hands on Clark, to kiss him and have him and hold him and –

“Something like that,” Clark agrees, and Bruce can see in his face that he knows Bruce's thoughts, can probably hear it in his heartbeat and the rush of his blood. His smile softens, loses some of its brilliance and gains something sensual instead.

He crosses the space between them, and _god_ Bruce had started to miss the way he smelled.

“I missed you,” Clark says, low under the breeze in the leaves, fingertips light on Bruce's face as he pushes his hair behind his ear, settles his hand around Bruce's ear. Bruce leans into it, would let his eyes shut if he wasn't so busy drinking in the sight of Clark, eyes so close, so blue.

“Missed you, too,” Bruce agrees, and Clark huffs a laugh.

“I know,” he says, “I can tell.” And if that isn't such a turn-on in and of itself –

Bruce remembers he has hands, then, and they're immediately in Clark's hair, curls soft between his fingers. He drags Clark into a kiss, a push and pull of lips that has him breathing hard, Clark's other arm around his waist and holding them together.

Bruce loses track of time, of where he is, of everything outside of Clark and his mouth and the way he tastes, and it takes him a moment to remember it all when Clark pulls back enough to look at his face, eyes shifting.

“ _God_ , I missed you,” Clark says, voice already rough, and honestly, he's too much for Bruce to handle, with his kiss-red lips and wide pupils and mussed up hair.

“Come on,” Bruce says, disentangling his hands to grab one of Clark's hands, pulling him to the door. 

 

They're kissing again before they get there, though, and they stumble into the bedroom, hands everywhere at once, eager and hungry. 

Clark breaks the kiss to shut and lock the door, and he leans against it, breathing heavy as he looks at Bruce. It's a slow, comprehensive once-over that leaves Bruce wondering if he's using more than regular vision. Clark's pupils are so dilated that the blue is nearly gone, and when he finally drags his eyes back up Bruce's body to meet his gaze again, Bruce's knees threaten to go weak at the way Clark clouds his mind and _looks_ at him, dark and wanting.

Bruce gives himself over to it like he always does, crowding Clark against the door to kiss him again, hands roaming up and down his chest as he licks into his mouth.

Clark's hands are big and warm on his hips, tugging Bruce's shirt out from his pants so he can get to bare skin, rucking the shirt up as he drags his hands up Bruce's sides.

“Bed,” Bruce says against Clark's lips, and then he's on it, plush sheets against his back and Clark pressed along his front, body surging against his in a renewed kiss.

Clark kisses like he does everything else – enthusiastic, focused, intense – and it makes Bruce's toes curl every time.

“Off, off, off, _off_ ,” he's mumbling into Bruce's mouth, hands pushing at Bruce's dress shirt, long fingers too clumsy on the buttons.

“Okay, okay, let me just – ” Bruce sits up to unbutton the shirt far enough to tug it over his head, and then gets to work on Clark's, taking his time with the buttons and ghosting his lips over the skin he reveals, leaving light kisses along Clark's collarbone.

Clark's hands are wrapped up in Bruce's hair, holding the back of his head – big hands, and Bruce will never get over that, he thinks with a distant part of his mind. Clark's hands are bigger than his own, and he's addicted to them, the way they feel like brands on his skin, the way they hold him so carefully when he knows they could tear through steel like paper.

Bruce runs his own hands up Clark's now exposed arms and marvels at the strength coiled there like he always does, and he lets Clark push him back down into the bed, heady with the way he smells, the way he feels, the way he kisses Bruce like he wants to devour him. 

 

Bruce's hands eventually find their way into Clark's hair again, and if he'll never get over Clark's hands then he's _definitely_ never getting over Clark's hair and the way he's let it grow out just a little, enough for it to turn into those almost-ringlet curls that drive Bruce wild with the need to touch. It's silky soft as usual, the curls twisting around Bruce's fingers when he holds onto Clark's head, and Bruce reveals in the groans Clark makes when Bruce tugs hard enough.

He misses Clark's mouth as soon as it's gone, but the open-mouthed kisses he's pressing along Bruce's neck are an acceptable substitute. His mouth is warm, sucking light marks into each patch of skin as he goes until he gets to Bruce's collarbone. He pauses there, nose pressed into the hollow as he takes a deep breath and then another; Bruce tugs on his hair until he groans, and then again until Clark looks up. His eyes are blown wide, deep pools of black looking up at Bruce from under thick eyelashes, and his lips are a bright red, kiss-roughed and swollen. Bruce traces a hand down Clark's jaw until he gets to his lips, and he runs his thumb over them, and then again.

“Kiss me again,” he says, low and rough and heady, and he watches, transfixed, as Clark moves back up his body, the sway of his shoulders slow and sensual, the bend of his arms so exquisitely controlled – and then the pressure of his lips, insistent and addictive. Bruce rides the wave of it, thinks he could spend a forever kissing Clark and not have enough. He's sweet in all the ways Bruce thinks he doesn't deserve, hands just the right amount of gentle and firm on Bruce's skin.

Clark kisses with his whole body, everything focused on leaving Bruce absolutely wrecked. He licks into Bruce's mouth with a controlled kind of urgency, bites so carefully at his lips, has Bruce gasping for air before he's even pulled away from the first kiss.

Bruce's hands leave Clark's hair behind to run along the rippling muscles in his back, raking blunt fingernails along impervious skin again and again. Clark's body is like marble, like a statue in its build, but his skin burns like a fire under Bruce's palms, golden and sun-warmed.

Clark rolls his hips down, grinding their erections against each other, and Bruce swallow a groan, head tipped to the ceiling. Clark latches onto his neck and does it again, and again, Bruce's hands flexing against Clark's hips.

“Wanna – wanna taste you,” Clark says, the words pressed into Bruce's skin. “Wanna hear you, wanna watch you fall apart, wanna make you come.”

“Yes, yes, _come on_ ,” Bruce agrees, fingers drifting to the button on Clark's pants and pushing them down as far as he can reach.

He blinks and they're both naked, skin on skin and he missed the way Clark feels against him, so ridiculously warm and strong and smooth.

 

Clark takes his time, the urgency from the balcony fading under the pressure of palms and fingers, and it doesn't always go like this, so slow and gentle and _sweet_ , but Bruce sits back and lets Clark do as he pleases tonight, content to lay in his affections and accept whatever he has to offer.

Somewhere through the haze, between fervent kisses and soft moans, Bruce thinks about the way Clark looks over him – hair loose and sweat-curled on the back of his neck, hanging into his eyes and brushing against Bruce's face; eyes black and intense in their focus when they're not squeezed shut; skin glistening and covered in shadows with soft edges in the low lamplight. He is stunning, a portrait of passion, of everything Bruce could ever want – he is everything, consuming every inch of Bruce's line of sight, alighting every one of his nerve endings until he fills Bruce's attention completely, mind, body, and heart.

If he were an artist, this is how he would draw Clark, looking like some Renaissance secret, a _David_ lost to touch and skin; but there's nothing that can capture the way it feels to be kissed, touched, pulled to orgasm by him, by his hands and his body and the sounds he makes, all so much more addicting than any drug Bruce knows. 

“God, I love you,” Bruce tells him, pushed over the edge, falling boneless into the sheets, and Clark laughs, a breathless half-sound pressed into the skin of Bruce's neck. Bruce pulls his head up, kisses him long and slow and deep, draws out each one until Clark is shaking above him, coming apart until he lands half-on top of Bruce, arm across his chest and face back in his neck.

“Love you, too,” Clark says, dropping a kiss to Bruce's chest, and Bruce can hear the smile in his voice, can guess the size of it. “That wasn't really what I had planned, but…” Clark props himself up on arm to look at Bruce, and there's that smile, the exact one he expected.

“There's always the morning,” Bruce says, yawning at the end, and Clark laughs, a sound Bruce would happily bottle up and save for eternity.

“There's always the morning,” he agrees, and Bruce looks at him, catalogs his features like he hasn't been doing it all night, like he doesn't do it every time – and Clark's face softens like it always does when he catches Bruce at it.

Bruce reaches for him, traces his fingertips up Clark's arm and over his shoulder, across his jawline and down his nose, along his hairline and against his lips.

“Beautiful,” he says, barely audible to himself, but Clark smiles at him, a soft, lazy thing, and wraps Bruce's hand in his own, bringing them down to rest on top of Bruce's heart. Bruce can feel his heartbeat under his skin, steady and slow, and he watches Clark's finger lightly tap the beat.

“My favorite sound,” Clark tells him, and this – the two of them in this moment are so full of something sugary sweet, things they don't usually talk about, and Bruce feels light with it.

“Sap,” he says, turning his head to press his lips to Clark's hair, hiding his smile in the curls.

“That's me,” Clark agrees, syllables drawn out and heavy with sleep. Bruce lets his eyes close, hears Clark murmur _goodnight_ and whispers it back as he falls asleep. 

 


End file.
